


itchin' on a photograph.

by katarama



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Cunnilingus, Dick Pics, F/M, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Lingerie, Photography, Polyamory, Threesome, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-09
Updated: 2016-01-09
Packaged: 2018-05-12 17:53:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5675161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katarama/pseuds/katarama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You took pictures of me,” Scott says, his smile as crooked as his jaw when she tells him he can move again.  Allison appreciates the fact that he doesn’t mention how long it took her to get to that point, or say that he forgot she took pictures in the first place.</p><p>“I take pictures of places I’ve been,” Allison says, as casually as she can manage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	itchin' on a photograph.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stonerskittles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonerskittles/gifts), [lonniek](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonniek/gifts).



“Did you take these?” Scott asks, holding the photographs carefully, flipping slowly through each of them.  They’re nothing remarkable; at least, Allison doesn’t think they are.  She’s kept them hidden in an unpacked box in her room, and would have kept them there if Scott hadn’t tripped and watched them all come tumbling out.

“Yeah.  They’re mostly places I’ve been, some nature shots and cityscapes,” Allison says.  She can feel the itch in her fingertips to reach out and take them, to grab them and hide them away again, so no one can see them.  She’s _insecure_  about these.  She can remember how important the moments felt when she pressed the button on the fancy camera she’d saved up for, that feeling of everything slotting perfectly into place, just waiting for her to put them to film.  She’s never been good at consistently practicing, seeking out shots.  But she filled up a couple rolls of film and went to develop them in the school dark room, made prints and realized that the magic didn’t translate to the pretty, glossy paper.

“They’re beautiful.”  

She lets out the breath she didn’t realize she was holding, because Scott’s voice sounds genuine, almost verging on awed.  “They’re nothing,” she says, then takes it back, almost immediately.  “I mean, not _nothing_ , they’re just… embarrassing.  Like my old third grade poetry attempts.”

“I like them,” Scott says.  “Do you still have your camera?  There’s a photography elective you could take, if you wanted.”

“I do,” Allison says.  “But it’s a private thing.  I’ve never even taken pictures of other people with my nice camera, because they’d ask to see.”

Scott places a gentle kiss on her cheek.  “You can take pictures of me with your nice camera.  It could be fun.”

“I’ll think about it,” she says, and Scott tells her to do whatever makes her most comfortable.

* * *

 

Allison sorts through some of her boxes and does some unpacking.  The longer they stay in Beacon Hills, the more certain she becomes that it will be her last stop for a while.  She starts to find her place, to make friends and to establish herself, and bit by bit, the boxes empty and her room takes shape.  She finds the camera, tucked away in its carrying case in one of the last few boxes.  She pulls it out and sits it on her desk, staring at it for days before she finally buckles down and finds the nearest place she can buy film.  

She chickens out, once the film is loaded.  She puts her camera back in her desk, like if she can’t see it, then it doesn’t exist.  For the most part, it works.  She forgets it’s there until her pen runs out of ink, or until her loose leaf paper in her binders is all gone.  She closes her drawer quickly.

Until senior year comes, and she starts to get nostalgic.  She’ll be leaving Beacon Hills at the end of the year, and it seems wrong not to open up the bottom drawer and pull the camera out, to check and see if the film is still good.

She’s grown to love Beacon Hills, for all its small town feel.  There are some things she’s been thinking of getting on film, some places she considers home.  Her favorite spot in the woods behind her house, the sunset on the main strip.  The archery range she practices at.  She spends a day or two just driving, wasting gas and seeing if anything hits her in the gut.  There are a couple of shots she thinks might have turned out well, and it bolsters her confidence enough that she tucks her camera into her bag when she goes to school the next day.

She doesn’t do anything with it, at first.  She just carries it, conscious of the weight of it against her side.  She figures it’s a step in the right direction, even being brave enough to bring it to school.

But then, a few days in, she’s outside with Scott.  They sneak away from the table with their friends and find a spot on the grass that’s quieter.  They eat their lunch together, and Scott finishes faster (a product of being childhood friends with Stiles, who everyone knows is a food thief).  Scott sprawls out on the grass, looking up at the clouds and describing them to her, making her giggle as he says a donkey-shaped cloud is Harris.

Scott smiles up at her, loose and easy, like the stress of everything that’s been going on lately is gone.  Allison feels the warmth of it in her gut, and before she can even think, she’s rifling through her bag, telling Scott gently not to move, and fumbling to adjust her camera’s settings.

“You took pictures of me,” Scott says, his smile as crooked as his jaw when she tells him he can move again.  Allison appreciates the fact that he doesn’t mention how long it took her to get to that point, or say that he forgot she took pictures in the first place.

“I take pictures of places I’ve been,” Allison says, as casually as she can manage.  If Stiles were here, he’d call her out on being mushy, but Scott appreciates it in a way Stiles doesn’t.  At least she didn’t make any comments about being in his heart.  His eyes crinkle, and he holds his hand out, bringing her back down to the ground with him.

“Does your expensive camera take selfies?” Scott asks, and Allison laughs as he holds the clunky camera up so they both fit in the frame, making the goofiest face he can.

* * *

 

Scott isn’t always the best model.  He doesn’t stay still for long; not in the sense that Stiles doesn’t, driven by jitters and movement unless he’s on his meds or caffeine, but in the sense that he always feels the need to be doing something.  He works hard at school and he works hard at lacrosse and he works hard at college applications.  Allison sees him all the time, but there are only so many time she can take pictures of Scott staring at his computer or with a pencil tucked behind his ear.

The first time she takes a picture of Scott during sex is actually an accident.  She has her camera on her bed, and when Scott takes his shirt off and lays back for her, she decides to move it.  She doesn’t realize it’s still on until she presses the button and hears the click of the shutter, and both of them freeze.

“Whoops?” Allison says.  She sets it on the nightstand and kisses Scott, and she forgets about it entirely.

When she develops the film, though, it’s there.  Scott, his eyes heavy and his skin gorgeous in the light, his hair mussed.  It’s a little bit blurry, but it feels soft and very Scott, and Allison decides it’s good enough to show him.  

Scott looks thoughtful.  He tells Allison he likes it, and Allison figures that will be the end of it.  Liking it is a good thing, but she doesn’t realize that the next time they’re naked and fucked out together, come cooling on Scott’s skin, that he’d tentatively suggest, “What if you got your camera?”

And then it becomes something.  They’re never really overly explicit, the photos Allison chooses to take.  They could go on a tasteful blog or website, if Allison or Scott ever really intended to show them to anyone.  It’s the little things that Allison loves about Scott.  The plane of his back when he takes a leaf from Derek’s book and shows off doing pull-ups with the doorframe.  Scott asleep on her bed, the covers just low enough to show the curve of his ass.  The stretch of his calves and thighs when he makes breakfast naked for them, standing on his tiptoes to reach the highest shelf of the cabinets where he left the whisk when he baked with Stiles when he was high.  Scott with a towel wrapped around his waist, his hair dripping down his chest, the water pooling along the dips of his abs.  Sometimes, it verges on more risque, Scott’s mouth with Allison’s fingers in it, or Scott’s hand tucked under the waistband of his sweatpants.  Scott panting and sweating and catching his breath after fucking her.  

On one memorable occasion, Allison buys him pink panties, from a specialty store that sells stuff for men.  His cheeks flush almost as bright as the soft, silky fabric, and Allison tells him gently that he doesn’t have to wear them.  He puts them on, though, before one of their dates.  He seems more fidgety than normal, shifting in the booth of the restaurant, and Allison isn’t sure why until he takes her home and strips, the panties clinging perfectly to his ass.

Allison cups him through the satin, kisses him hard and tells him how pleased she is, how amazing he looks.  Scott glows in the praise, because making Allison happy is one of his favorite things, but it doesn’t sink in just how much she loves it until she reaches for her camera.

“Do you mind?” she asks, and he only wavers for a moment.

“Please,” he responds.  “If you think they look good.”

“You look perfect,” she tells him.  “I don’t need the pictures to know that.”

She takes the pictures, though, so Scott can see how good he looks.  Because the pictures aren’t just for her, so she has something exciting to think about when she’s going through her film.  The pictures are for both of them.  She wouldn’t have taken them without Scott, and they build Scott up as much as Scott’s gentle admiration builds her up.  He gets to see himself the way Allison does, every imperfection and blemish made beautiful by her camera and her words.

Sometimes, she wishes she had pictures of the two of them, more, but she doesn’t really like taking pictures of herself.  Sometimes parts of her will work their way in, organically, but she’d much rather see Scott through the lens than her.  More and more, though, she looks through her pictures and sees that, with the exception of a few candids she’s taken of her friends at school events, when she was brave enough to pull out her camera, encouraged by Scott’s smile, they’re all… just of Scott.

Which isn’t a problem, really.  Allison could stare at Scott for the rest of her life and probably never be over how beautiful he is.  But it isn’t exactly a diverse profile.  Scott comments on it one day, just a thoughtful observation, but otherwise, she doesn’t really think about it.  

Not until Scott calls her, his voice throaty and rough from smoking, and asks, with no preamble, “What if you could take pictures with someone else, too?”

“Are you and Stiles getting off together?” Allison asks, and there’s a bang and a laugh in the background.  It gets Scott giggling, too, and Allison takes that as a yes.

“Only if Stiles can stay still long enough to actually get his picture taken,” Allison teases.  “I’ll let you two have fun.”

“Love you,” Scott says, and when Allison hears a moan, she hangs up.  Scott’s told her about his and Stiles’ sex life, and it’s something that she’s Very Interested in, but it feels weird for her first time hearing everything first-hand to be on the phone while they’re both high.

The next time it comes up, though, it’s Stiles, settling in next to Allison, asking, “Would you really take pictures of me and Stiles?”

“Do you want me to?”  Stiles’ teeth worry his lower lip, and Allison waits patiently for an answer.  Friendship with Stiles has been a lesson in patience.

“Yes,” he tells her.  “Scott talks about it a lot, and he says that the photos are a you and him thing, so I don’t really ever get to see them, but he… says it’s good.  For him.  And I’ve only ever taken dick pics, which, Scott tells me they’re great, but he would probably say that about any pictures I took of myself naked, because it’s Scott, and…”

“You aren’t unattractive,” Allison says.  “Most people aren’t, but you especially.  Scott is right.”

“You also haven’t seen my dick,” Stiles says, and Allison snorts.

“I can take pictures of you and Scott, as long as you’re both okay with it.  I don’t think anyone would complain about the chance to take pictures of you two naked.”

Stiles purses his lips in a pout and tilts his head backwards, and Allison has to laugh.  “Go find Scott and let him know, so he can take his time fretting about it, too.”

“Love you Allison,” Stiles says, and he disappears to find their boyfriend.

* * *

 

When Allison gets the camera out, Stiles freezes, staring it down like it spells his doom.  Allison nearly puts it away right then and there, because the comically obvious nerves are written all over Stiles’ body, like every other strong emotion Stiles feels.  

“No,” Stiles says, stopping her.  “I want to do this.”

“Here,” Scott offers, holding Stiles’ hand.  “Don’t think about it so much.  It’s harder when you think about it.”

“‘Don’t think about it’ is the worst advice ever, you realize that?” Stiles says dryly.  “It never actually works for-”

Scott cuts him off with a quick peck on the lips, which is just enough to render Stiles silent.  “Then let me distract you, until you forget about it,” Scott says.

Stiles takes the initiative, this time, licking his lips and then leaning back in, slotting his lips between Scott’s.  This part is nothing Allison hasn’t seen before.  It’s nothing most of the school hasn’t seen before, with Stiles’ tendency to get carried away when his mouth is busy.  Still, there’s something new about it, about the fact that this is just the beginning of something.  

She waits until the tension has dropped from Stiles’ shoulders and she snaps a picture, catching the hints of stubble Scott still hasn’t shaved and the line of moles dotting across Stiles’ cheek, from Stiles’ lips back to his ear, just inviting Scott to follow them back to Stiles’ sensitive neck.  She gets a picture when Stiles slips Scott tongue, when Scott cups Stiles’ jaw, when Scott’s shirt comes off.

Scott looks amazing with Stiles’ nail marks red in his sides, shallow and uneven, and Stiles looks taken apart, undone, with Scott’s teeth nipping at his tits, Scott’s full lips soothing away the pain and redness after.  Allison gets caught up in how familiar and natural everything feels, like Stiles knows the ins and outs of Scott’s body as well as he knows his own, his fingers never wavering or hesitating.  They strip clumsily, because years of lacrosse haven’t granted either of them magical shirt shedding powers, but that makes it even more real for Allison.  She gets a picture of Stiles with his head stuck in his shirt, with Scott grinning wildly on the bed next to him.  Stiles is still shocked, though, when he unbuttons Scott’s pants and pulls down the zipper and sees a flash of purple and lace.

“You wore your new pair,” Allison says softly.  She’s been trying to keep quiet, aside from the click of the camera, to avoid jolting either of them from their moment.  But she knows what’s coming, before Stiles even does, apparently, knows to expect the delicate floral lace that contrasts so nicely with Scott’s skin, the cotton that clings to Scott’s dick.  It isn’t as nice as Scott’s pink pair, but it’s easier to clean for everyday use, and Scott likes to wear them, sometimes, as a little surprise.  They’re obviously a surprise for Stiles, and Allison gets to see him reach out to touch with careful hands.

When Stiles gets his batman boxers off, Scott lingers with his fingers wrapped around Stiles’ dick, but it doesn’t seem unsure for a moment.  It’s deliberate, drawing moans from Stiles’ mouth, the threat of delay that Allison knows is one of Scott’s favorite buttons to push.  By the time Scott is done with him, Stiles is like a live wire, every stroke making him shake, like his nerves are close to fried.  Allison sees Stiles suck Scott’s dick into his mouth, but she’s careful about what goes on film; she only saves Scott’s hand in Stiles’ hair, the smear of come on Stiles’ lips when he pulls off, the spatter of come on his cheek.  

“Do you want us to take care of you?” Scott asks, and Allison startles.  She’s wet; it’s hard not to be, watching Scott and Stiles together.  She hadn’t been thinking about it until now, though, with her focus on trying to do the two of them justice with her camera, and she’d gotten caught up in it until now, when even shifting her movement makes her painfully aware of how much she needs more.

“I could eat you out,” Stiles offers, his lips still puffy from Scott’s dick.  “Scott said you have dental dams around.”

Allison glances at Scott, to see if it’s okay.  He smiles at her encouragingly, though she didn’t expect anything less.  Scott has always loved the idea of his two partners being together like this.  He practically runs to get them a dental dam.  Allison sets down her camera on the bed, takes off her shorts with shaky hands and leaves Stiles to peel off her underwear.  She wishes she had worn a sexier pair; if she had thought for a moment that she would be having sex with Stiles for the first time, she would’ve opted for something smaller, something less comfortable.  Stiles doesn’t seem to mind either way, though.  His big hands skim along her thighs to get them down from her hips, lingering on her skin even once she’s kicked her underwear the rest of the way off.

Stiles, unlike Scott, doesn’t tease.  He grabs the dental dam from Scott and puts it in place, knowing that Allison is wet enough that he can dive right in.  It still takes longer than Allison would have herself; she’s so soaked that all she would need was an efficient minute or two with her finger on her clit.  But Stiles is better than she would’ve expected, for all his hurry to bury his face in her cunt; he spreads out the attention, gets his mouth on the lips of her cunt, dips his tongue into her hole, only the thin layer of latex preventing his mouth from being covered in her slick.  Allison spreads her legs wider, rolls her hips gently and gets a hint of teeth, the press of a nose for her efforts.

Scott talks him through it, giving him tips that Allison wouldn’t have even thought to give him herself, and before long, Allison’s thighs are shaking, her feet and calves tensed so tight she’s afraid she’s going to cramp.

And then he’s sucking her clit, and she’s tipping over the edge, letting Stiles tongue her through the aftershocks, while everything is still sensitive and electric in a good way.  She’s ready to feel lazily for Stiles’ head and shove him off when she hears the click of a camera.

“Sorry,” Scott says sheepishly, grinning at Allison’s confused, fucked-out face.  “You take pictures of places you’ve been, right?”

Stiles snorts, and Allison swats gently at him.  “You’re awful.”

* * *

 

Allison develops the film and shows it to them, scrolls through slowly enough that they can see each picture.  A few of them are complete duds, Stiles blurring from moving too much, or her focus or the exposure just slightly wrong.  But she’s happy with them, and Scott and Stiles are, too.

She gets to the last picture, the one of her and Stiles, and she blushes at how she looks.  It’s something that she’s never seen before; even Scott never snapped pictures with his phone, though Allison wouldn’t be surprised if he had thought about it.

“I want that printed and framed,” Scott tells her.  “My two favorite people.”

“And my dick,” Stiles says dreamily.  “My dick on your desk, for everyone to see.”

Allison knows she’ll need to confiscate the photo at some point, if it ever does get printed, because she loves Melissa, and has no intention to ever let her stumble across that photo.

Maybe, though, someday, they’ll have an apartment to themselves, where the boys can display whatever dirty pictures they want.

(The ones that Lydia will allow, at least.)

**Author's Note:**

> On tumblr [here](sleepy-skittles.tumblr.com).


End file.
